


Darkness

by Johnlock_is_life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlock_is_life/pseuds/Johnlock_is_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by 2spunky: John can't sleep at 3 am and so he goes to get water, but he sees Sherlock staring at a wall (again) and he knows Sherlock hasn't gotten much sleep for the past few nights so they curl up on the couch together and fall asleep in each other's arms.<br/>Really quick little fluffy oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Really quick little fluffy oneshot. Originally posted to my tumblr (Johnlock-is-life.tumblr.com) with just a few changes for here.

There’s blood. A lot of it. He can’t see where he’s going. The sound of gunfire rings in his ears; continuous. In the darkness, he reaches out blindly, fumbling for someone, something to hold onto.

“Sherlock!”

There’s nothing, no reply. “Sherlock!” He tries again, searching more frantically this time, ignoring the fear that is biting at his heart. He fights off the impulse to run as a bullet shoots past him, grazing his side. He ignores the sharp sting and the wetness of blood. He has to find Sherlock. “SHERLOCK!”

It’s bitterly cold. He’s shaking when he finds him, sprawled out on the floor.

He’s lying on his front, his arms spread-eagled around him. John can’t see, not properly, not more than a silhouette. “Sherlock,” He breathes, groping in a pocket for a torch. He finds one, and flicks it on. “Sherlock,” He repeats, over and over, until the name sounds strange in his mind.

He shines the light on Sherlock. His head is undamaged.

Then John’s world stops.

Blood. More blood than he’s ever seen in his life, surrounding a clean hole in Sherlock’s back. Desperately, John reaches for Sherlock’s arm. There is no pulse.

No pulse, no life. He turns Sherlock over. His eyes, once so careful and calculating, are dead, blank. There is no warm breath coming from between is lips.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

John wakes up with a start. He is drenched with sweat and breathing heavily. The room is dark.

“Shit.”

He’s parched.

Slowly, he climbs out of bed. He’s still shaking a little, but whether from cold or fear John doesn't actually know. The dream is taunting him, the vivid image of Sherlock, bloody and broken, branded white hot onto his eyelids.

The kitchen is dark when he reaches it. Blindly, he makes himself a glass of water. He doesn't want to turn on the light and wake himself up properly.

“You may as well turn on the lights.” He jumps, splashing water all over the floor.

“Sherlock, don’t do that! I didn't know you were here!” He tries to laugh it off, but it sounds forced so he stops.

This time John does turn on the light. Sherlock is standing in the living room, staring at the wall. “What the hell are you doing? It’s-” John checks his watch, “three in the morning!”

“Yes, I am aware of the time,” John can’t see his face, but he can practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“What are you actually doing?”

“Thinking, John. Look.” He spins around and pulls up the sleeve of his dressing gown, where three nicotine patches are placed in a triangle. “It’s a difficult problem that needs my attention.”

This time it’s John who rolls his eyes.

“Sherlock, listen. You haven’t slept at all in days.” He places his glass on the table and makes his way into the living room. The lights are still off in there, but the glow from the kitchen gives him all the light he needs.

“Sleep? Sleep is boring. Sleep is unnecessary. It wastes my time.” Sherlock’s pacing now, his hands on his head. “Why can’t I just THINK?”

John sits himself on the sofa. This is going to be a long night.

“Because that’s all you've been doing for days on end!” There’s silence then. "Sometimes, it helps to take a break. And you know that the human brain can't function properly without sleep." Sherlock looks at John, hard, his eyes calculating.

“You had a nightmare.” He assesses, “Only this time… There was something different. You weren't at war. You were with… oh.” Sherlock shakes his head a little. “You were with me.” There is a silence, where Sherlock stares at John in the semi-darkness. “So what happened, what were we doing?”

John looks up at Sherlock, who is still looking down at him expectantly.

“No. You have to go to bed.”

“For goodness’ sake, John. I'm not a child. I'm perfectly capable of managing my own bedtime.”

John rolls his eyes. Sherlock does need to rest. And it’s a little creepy to have him tower above you, glaring at you with sleep deprived eyes.

“Sit down,” John instructs, waving a hand at the other side of the sofa. Sherlock looks at him quizzically for a second but obliges. Immediately, John notices a change in his posture. Sherlock’s comfortable for what is probably the first time in weeks. “I don’t know where we were.” He admits. Sherlock watches him, interest evident on his face. “It was dark. There were bullets and you- you got shot.”

Sherlock tilts his head forwards. “Oh.” He says, his eyes fixed on John’s face. “Oh.”

They sit in silence for a while. John listens to Sherlock’s steady breathing. It's calming. Relaxing, even. Eventually, John speaks. “You should sleep now, you know.”

“Hmm.” he replies. “I suppose.” Sherlock stands up.

“Where are you going?”

“To my bed. To sleep.”

John knows that that this makes sense. In fact it’s expected. But he doesn't want Sherlock to go and leave him.

“No,” John says quietly. “Stay here.”

An expression that John can’t quite place flickers across Sherlock’s face. He sees, for a second, happiness and relief and something else that John doesn't dare to name, because of all the implications it has. No, John tells himself, it was just my tired mind.

Sherlock sits back down.

“I'm sure you realise that in order for me to get a good night’s sleep I will have to lie down,”

“Yes.” John says, because really, he doesn't know what else to say.

“And I'm assuming, by the fact that you've asked me to stay here, that you won’t mind this.”

Sherlock’s avoiding the point and they both know it. By lying down, Sherlock will be taking up the rest of the sofa, using John as a pillow almost. But the more John thinks about it, the more he finds that he actually doesn't mind. Not one bit.

“Take as much space as you need,” John instructs.

So Sherlock does. He stretches out so that he’s laying on his side, his legs curled up so as to fit into the sofa. His head rests on John’s stomach, so dangerously close to John’s crotch that the shorter man flinches. “No, wait, move over. I'm not comfortable.” John shifts so that he’s sitting cross legged with Sherlock’s cheek resting on his leg. He feels rather than sees Sherlock smile.

“That’s better,” Sherlock says quietly. A few seconds of silence, in which John tries to work out what to do with his arms while simultaneously watching Sherlock. He’s not quite asleep, but his chest rises and falls slowly. His hair is so pretty, and John just wants to-

“May I?” He asks nervously, carefully touching Sherlock’s hair to demonstrate what he means. Sherlock makes a small noise of contentment, so John takes that as a yes and proceeds, twisting the strands of dark hair beneath his fingers. Sherlock hums in appreciation.

There is more silence, punctured only by Sherlock’s deep, even breaths. The sound is relaxing, lulling John into sleep, Sherlock still curled up at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing this! Fluuuff. Crap ending is crap. Please leave a review, let me know what you thought!


End file.
